


there’s blood in the water, but it tastes so sweet

by strangehunger



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Biting, Bottom! Catra, Bruises, But like. Not a Lot of power dynamics? It’s intricate., Cunnilingus, F/F, Force Captain! Catra, Force Commander! Adora, Horde Adora (She-Ra), Horde Girlfriends, I have. No excuse., Implied Memory Alteration, Like a little rough but really it’s tender. Again. Intricate., Like extremely mild., Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Painplay, Oral Sex, Please read the note!!!, Porn with Feelings, Power Dynamics, Praise Kink, Read! The! Notes!, Scratching, Smut, There’s something of a plot but frankly you can skip it, Throne Sex, Top! Adora, Vaginal Fingering, but like not for lack of trying, implied self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:06:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25457473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangehunger/pseuds/strangehunger
Summary: “Save the lecture,Commander,” says Catra, voice mocking. “Look, I’m tired, Adora. I just spent the last week fucking around in the dirt and the sand, getting my ass kicked while trying to find something you won’t even tell me about.”Adora stares at her. She leans back for a moment, staring at Catra. Understanding flashes in her eyes, and Catra suddenly regrets everything she just said.“You’re hurt,” Adora says finally, alarm evident in her voice. “What happened?”The only thing worse than getting reprimanded by her superior officer is getting lectured by hergirlfriend.________________Canon divergent AU in which Adora (allegedly) never left the Horde. Force Captain Catra returns from a dangerous mission with a few secrets, more than a few bruises, and a head dizzyingly full of strange, vivid dreams of a life that never happened.
Relationships: Adora/Catra (She-Ra)
Comments: 53
Kudos: 715





	there’s blood in the water, but it tastes so sweet

**Author's Note:**

> I have. No excuse. Not a single one. Have some Horde girlfriends smut. Sometimes you want to write two terrible people who love one another to the detriment of everything else, but who love each other fiercely. Sometimes you just want to explore angsty feelings. Sometimes you want to do that with smut involved. Sometimes you just want to play with reliability in the narrative. Have fun. 
> 
> A lot of Horde! Adora has her like, really mean? Sometimes hot, but I wanted a reversal of that. 
> 
> PLEASE READ THIS: 
> 
> A few things central to the plot, if you’re paying attention. As a storyteller I’d rather have some of these things just unfold in the story but I do think they’re necessary to understand character dynamics and more importantly, consent. 
> 
> \- This story takes place roughly the same time as season five, about three years past the beginning of the story, in a canon divergent setting in which Adora and Catra have somehow risen to power and dethroned Hordak with Shadow Weaver’s help.  
> \- Shadow Weaver, thankfully, is dead. This story takes place rather shortly after her death.  
> \- The concept of the story is that Adora and Catra are Horde Girlfriends ruling together (you all saw that art on twitter, yeah? Yeah.) but frankly, I don’t think that’s really in line with either of their characters. There is an implication and an undercurrent throughout that Adora and Catra have **both** had their memories suppressed and are starting to recall them after Shadow Weaver’s death. I just think it’s important to put them on even footing here with memory alteration or else the power imbalance gets Really Messy. 
> 
> Title from “No Mercy” by PVRIS. 
> 
> My main ao3 is strangehunger if you want to read my other fic. If you know me on Twitter do not @ me on there about this fic please!. Idrc if you message if you aren't weird, but. This is on a secondary pseud so that it doesn’t show up on my main ao3 for a reason, because that is linked to publicly accessible accounts that may be seen by minors and I don’t want to blindside anyone with whatever the fuck this is.

> _“I really like the idea of love as a violent act, not to the person that you love but against the world. To say to someone ‘I love you, by extension I hate all other things.’”_
> 
> _— Andrew Hozier-Byrne._

Catra hates it here. 

She can’t help but think so every time the skiff brings her back into the familiar, dilapidating streets of the Fright Zone. If absence makes the heart grow fonder, then Catra thinks she would have to spend an eternity outside to miss this place even a little bit. It doesn’t matter how far she manages to climb, or how far her reach pushes out into Eternia. No matter how tall she stands as she strides through the halls of the Horde base, she doesn’t feel like the esteemed Force Captain she does on the battlefield. She feels like a child again, scared and small and _angry._

She rubs at her eyes. God, she’s tired. Their last mission in the Crimson Waste should have lasted a few days, but she’s been gone for a little over a week chasing fairy tales and getting slapped around by the Rebellion. She supposes it’s her fault — she tends to get excited, reckless in the heat of the moment. Now she’s going to pay for it, returning home empty handed while the Rebellion balances some fancy new First Ones tech in their palms. 

All she wants to do is find a shower and all but drown herself in it. She had slept on the skiff, though it had been a restless sleep, one plagued by the familiar discomforts of travel and the less familiar discomforts of her restless dreams. 

She runs her fingers over the walls of the Fright Zone as she walks its shadowed halls, nails digging in just enough to draw thin gauges into the surface. It’s a habit, a carry-over from when that was the only petty revenge at her hands. Better than turning her claws against herself — according to Adora, anyway. 

She’s sick of the dreams. 

It’s been a little over a month since Shadow Weaver’s death. For someone who had spent her entire life waiting to happily dance on the woman’s grave, Catra isn’t as happy about it as she had expected to be. Their planned siege on Mystacor is completely destroyed without her intel, which is flat out _inconvenient_ , but the whole thing had left a bitter taste in her mouth. It’s like she can _feel_ Shadow Weaver even in her absence, as if these strange dreams are somehow connected to her.

Dreams, visions, memories, who can say? She pushes them away. Whatever they are, they scare Catra. They feel like fragments pulled out of time, fragments of what might have been a different life. In that life, Adora walked away. In that one, she left Catra alone with a handful of broken promises, let the world tear them apart. The thought alone is worse than everything she has seen as a Force Captain, worse than everything she has _done_ as a Force Captain. The dreams plague her, therefore sleep evades her.

Stilll, she would do anything to drop into a bed. When a trembling recruit stops her in the hallway and says, “Force Captain — the Commander wants to see you,” in a shaking breath, she nearly takes his head off. 

Of _course_ the Force Commander wants to see her. Why would she expect anything different? 

She drags herself from death's door and back across the Fright Zone, shoulders straight and expression annoyed when she slips into the commander's audience chamber. The towering metal doors slide open for her, registering her heat signature and facial structure immediately. 

The commander's sanctum is just as Catra has always remembered it, dark except for the veins of brilliant green circuitry that trace up from the throne. The lacquered floor is so shiny that if Catra were to look down, she could see her own expression in it. She avoids doing so, sauntering forward with her arms folded across her stomach and her gaze steady as she winds her way through the columns of machinery strewn across the rooms, remnants of Hordak's rule. 

Adora is perched on the throne as if it is made of spikes, just barely teetering off the edge of it. Catra studies her for a moment, admiring the contrast between her dark uniform and her golden hair. She's so uncomfortable with power, and yet it suits her so well. Her face and hair are illuminated with the blue-green glow of the tablet in her hand, eyebrows screwed together in concentration. All the fuss to get Catra there, and she doesn't even notice her arrival. 

“Hey, _Commander,_ ” Catra greets. 

Adora startles. The tablet clatters to the floor, the sound echoing in the open expanse of the throne room. Her gaze sweeps over Catra, eyebrows knitting together in concern. She pushes to her feet immediately, so fast Catra thinks she might stumble down the harsh steps. 

Catra bites back a laugh. She saunters up the steps to Adora, unhurried. Nobody else in the Fright Zone would even dream of doing this, of casually walking up those steps to stand before Adora, shoulders pushed defiantly back. 

“Hey,” Adora says. “How was the mission?” 

“Inconclusive,” Catra lies. “Didn't you read my report?”

Her eyes drift to the tablet, it's screen gone black on the floor. Normally, she would be fine with this kind of debrief -- but she's tired and she's annoyed after spending the last week chasing down Adora's strange hunches in the Crimson Waste. She had volunteered for the mission -- the alternative, the one that Adora would have preferred, was that Adora go instead -- but she still isn't happy about it. Getting chased from one end of the desert by bandits and then back to the other by the Rebellion wasn't exactly her idea of _fun_. 

“Oh,” says Adora. She looks down at Catra, studying her face with steely blue eyes. “I thought there was maybe...something else.”

“Yeah, well, there wasn't,” Catra snaps. She doesn't mention the ship. If Scorpia knows what's good for her, she won't mention it either. It had been only the two of them in the creepy shell of a vessel, the empty space haunted by the unseen ghosts of occupants long gone. 

Catra doesn't know what Adora is looking for — she doesn't even know if _Adora_ knows what she's looking for -- but she can't help but think that ship is part of it. 

Adora's mouth sets in a hard line. “Are you su—”

Catra has had enough of this. She takes a step forward, right into Adora's space. She can feel the warmth of Adora's skin seeping through her clothes, can see every minute expression on Adora's face. Adora jerks back out of reflex alone and the backs of her knees hit the seat of the throne. She ends up inelegantly plopped down on it, Catra staring down at her. 

“What are you looking for, Adora?” Catra asks. Her voice is soft, and yet it seems to reverberate through the empty chamber.

She leans down, bracing one hand on either arm of the throne, caging Adora in. The tips of her claws rest against the metal, and she slowly pulls her fingers down, raking light grooves into the surface as she tilts her head to survey Adora’s confused expression below her.

Catra likes this position better. It’s nice to look down on Adora, for once.

“I — I don’t know,” Adora admits. 

_Lies,_ amends a traitorous voice in the back of Catra’s head. She had stood in that First One's ship, had traced her fingers over the circuitry of the control panel and had known -- had just _known_ \-- this is what Adora was looking for. That it was somehow connected to her, to all these pointless missions she kept running off to in the Whispering Woods, to these stupid dreams. 

"You don't know, or you don't want to tell me?”

“I don't _know_ ,” snaps Adora, annoyance lancing through her voice. She sits up a little straighter. "What is _wrong_ with you today?" She speaks with the steely tone of the Horde Commander, eyes narrowing and chin tilted up. "If anyone else spoke to me li—”

“Save the lecture, _Commander,_ ” says Catra, voice mocking. “Look, I’m _tired,_ Adora. I just spent the last week fucking around in the dirt and the sand, getting my ass kicked while trying to find something you won’t even _tell_ me about.”

Adora stares at her. She leans back for a moment, staring at Catra. Understanding flashes in her eyes, and Catra suddenly regrets everything she just said. 

“You’re hurt,” Adora says finally, alarm evident in her voice. “What happened?”

The only thing worse than getting reprimanded by her superior officer is getting lectured by her _girlfriend._

Catra is no stranger to pain. She’s a soldier; she has been since she was a child. She knows how to hide the pain, how to bite down on her lip and hide a wince. She’s good at it, but Adora _knows_ her; she knows her face, knows her body. She can see when Catra clenches her jaw to hold back a cry, the way her body goes stiff to minimize the pain. 

Her eyes sweep over Catra, searching for any signs of injury, and then she says bluntly, “Take your shirt off.”

Catra lets out an inelegant laugh. And then another one. She puts a hand to her forehead. “What, you called me all the way up here for _that_?” Her voice is half annoyance, half arousal. “You know that's what beds are—”

“Just do it, Catra!”

Adora tilts her jaw up in defiance. Her back is ramrod straight, and she stares up at Catra with a look of — not authority. Not pleading. _Expectation._

The two stare at each other for a moment, a silent battle of wills — until Catra finally relents. She drags her fingers down the arm-rests of the throne, leaving shallow grooves in the wake of her claws. It doesn’t get a rise out of Adora the way Catra had wanted it to, but she isn’t surprised. The most powerful seat in all of Etheria. To Adora, it’s just a chair. 

After a moment, Catra lets out an annoyed huff and stands up straight, hands going to the snaps at the nape of her neck. 

“So you want a striptease or what?” Catra asks, voice more casual than she feels as she peels the sleeve of her catsuit from her arm. 

All her needling doesn't matter, because Adora isn't paying attention to what she has to say. Her eyes are focused on the expanse of Catra's body slowly being revealed as she pushes the top down to her hips. 

She isn't wearing anything underneath, no bra or breastband — the top does enough for support on it's own, and besides, Catra had been too tender to bother when she got dressed at camp in the morning — but her exposed breasts are not the object of Adora’s attention. She's seen Catra naked a million times in a million different contexts, it's nothing new at this point. 

Catra doesn't have to look to know the bruises are bad. 

She had been tossed around on that last mission in the Crimson Wastes, and the last few days of travel had given the bruises plenty of time to bloom. They paint the flesh beneath the fine dusting of fur on her torso in mottled purples and blues, feathering to yellow at the edges. The medic had said she would be fine but _damn_ , if it doesn't hurt. 

Catra gives no indication, though. She stands tall and proud as Adora rakes her gaze over her, puts her hands to her hips and suppresses a wince when she brushes a bruise. “Happy?” Catra asks, voice flat. “Didn’t know you were into ex—”

She strangles a cry when Adora’s hands fly to her hips, pulling her closer to survey the damage. Her eyes dart from the bruises up to Catra’s face, down then back again. Her eyebrows knit together, eyes glassy as her fingers brush carefully against Catra’s waist. It doesn’t take a mind reader to understand what’s going through Adora’s mind, to know that she is blaming herself for every mark littered across Catra’s body. 

The expression on her face wounds Catra more than any physical ailment could. She does the only thing she can think to do — she leans down and kisses Adora, hard. 

Adora opens up underneath her immediately, acquiescing easily when Catra nips at her lower lip, using her teeth to drag at the soft flesh — not enough to draw blood, but close. Adora’s fingers dig into Catra’s hips at the impact, but Catra doesn’t stop her. She lets Adora guide her instead, clambers forward to straddle Adora’s lap. Those familiar hands brush up her hips and over the dip of her waist, long fingers running soothingly up and down the curve of Catra’s body. 

It’s at once painful and pleasurable and Catra pushes herself into the touch, letting Adora have her fill. The pads of Adora’s fingertips brush carefully over her bruised skin, caressing the older scars of Catra’s own claw marks just under her ribs, a bad habit she has broken for Adora, only for Adora. 

Using the leverage of this position, Catra drags a hand through Adora’s ponytail. There’s always a strange satisfaction that comes from disarraying it, and she clenches a hand into the golden hair at the base of Adora’s neck, tilting her head back so that she can kiss her even deeper. 

When they finally break apart for air, Adora says against her lips, voice straining breathlessly, “Catra, are you s—”

“Yes,” says Catra with finality. She dives in again. 

If only Adora would stop _talking._

“I missed you,” Adora says in gasps between kisses. “I was worried about—”

Catra cuts that off with another kiss, grinding her hips down against Adora’s. She wonders how _worried_ Adora would be if she knew about the ship. 

Adora’s hands wander lower, exploring further depths — she pushes into the tight fabric of Catras suit and uses her grip on Catra’s firm ass to grind their hips closer together. When she begins to peel the suit down, underwear and all, Catra detaches herself from Adora just long enough to slide the garments from her body and kick them down to the base of the throne. 

More bruises batter the rest of her body. Adora frowns down at them. 

“Sorry to disappoint.” 

“What?” Adora says, eyebrows knitting even tighter together. Understanding flashes through her eyes and says between rough breaths, “No, Catra, you're beautiful, I just…” her fingers brush carefully, reverentially over Catra's thighs, and then she pulls Catra back down over her. “I hate seeing you like this.”

She’s so _sweet,_ even now. It doesn’t matter how far the two of them have managed to climb, how much the rest of the Horde needs their commander — this Adora is only for _her._

The difference between their clothed states is annoying to Catra. She wants to feel skin when she pushes up against Adora, not the synthetic weave of her uniform. Knowing Adora probably won't be happy about it later, Catra rakes her claws down the back of Adora's dark shirt, feeling the release of tension in the tight fabric as it parts under her fingers. There's a sharp intake of breath against her shoulder, and Catra knows she's hit skin. 

Adora takes the hint, leans back the rest of the way to peel the shirt off over her head. She dives back in immediately for another kiss, meaning that the only thing Catra can do with her breast band is shove it roughly up over the swell of her chest, revealing pale flesh and pink, peaked nipples. 

Catra pushes up against her, rolling her hips against Adora's, pressing their breasts together. The fingers of one hand clutch at Adora’s back. She retracts her claws as much as she is able and lets the other hand drift down to the cramped space between the two of them to try and push between Adora's legs. 

Adora catches Catra's hand in hers. Her grip is strong, and she holds it in the air, away from either of their bodies. Catra breaks the kiss in annoyance, leaning back to stare down at Adora. 

“What? _Now_ you don't want to do this?”

“No, it's not that,” Adora breathes. She pulls Catra's hand forward, runs her lips down the sensitive inside of her wrist before dropping it back down to rest against her pale shoulder. “Here, let me.”

One hand fits against the low of Catra's back. The other drifts lower, stroking up the aching flesh of Catra's legs, into the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs. The higher they get, the more Catra can feel herself tense. The more frenetic her breaths become in the space between the two of them. She burns with arousal, even more with each feather light touch against her thighs. 

"Let me take care of you, Catra," Adora breathes against her neck. 

Adora’s hand _finally_ slips between Catra’s legs, the pads of her fingers brushing the sensitive skin there. They slide in the wetness that has gathered there, running teasingly through her folds. She's so wet just from this, she can feel it. Adora's fingers slide against her and she shifts her gaze up, mouth curving into a grin, and Catra _knows_ she is going to make some smart-ass remark. She cuts that off by leaning down and going for another kiss. 

Adora takes the opportunity to push one finger in. 

Catra moans at the intrusion, mouth open against Adora's. She can feel Adora’s low laugh vibrate in her chest. Her other hand pushes up the tender flesh of Catra’s abdomen to cup one of her breasts, thumb brushing tantalizingly at one of her erect nipples. 

The digit inside of Catra crooks, works slowly in and out of her body, but it isn’t enough. She’s too aroused, too wet, too open for that to satisfy her. She rocks against Adora’s hand and then, when Adora doesn’t get the hint, she breaks the kiss long enough to breathe, “More,” against Adora’s cheekbone. “Adora, more.” 

Eager to please as always, Adora complies. A second finger joins the first and _there_ ,now Catra can feel the stretch. She shifts her knees to spread her legs wider as she kneels over Adora’s lap, movement restricted by the arm of the throne. 

The rhythm of Adora’s fingers starts with teasing, shallow thrusts, exploring the wet heat inside of Catra. Catra pushes against them, forcing them deeper. She _wants_ Adora, always wants her, wants her in ways that terrify her. 

Catra loves Adora, somehow more than she hates herself. 

She hates the way she’ll do anything for Adora, even run around chasing ghosts through the Crimson Wastes. She hates the way she’ll let Adora do anything to her. She hates even more that _this,_ more often than not, is what Adora wants to do — to touch her with those achingly tender hands, brush her lips over all of the bruised and broken places and try to kiss them better. To take care of her. She has done so many terrible things — sometimes it would be easier if Adora just wanted it fast and hard, wanted to punish Catra for all of the things she is and all of the things she isn’t. 

Instead, Adora wants to do _this._ Wants to curl her fingers up into Catra and watch with unabashed wonder when she throws her head back and groans, as if she hasn’t seen it a hundred times before. She presses open mouthed kisses to the spray of bruises across Catra’s collar bone. She rests her forehead in the apex just above Catra’s breasts and whispers, breath warm, “You’re beautiful,” as if Catra isn’t currently a walking bruise. 

And all Catra can say, raking her claws down Adora's bare back, is, “Adora, _please._ ”

Adora's fingers drive in and out of her, pace building rapidly. Catra pushes down into them, hips moving in a steady, natural rhythm. The only sounds in the open expanse of the chamber is the wet slapping of Adora's fingers as she fucks Catra and the ragged, rapidly rising breaths escaping from Catra's throat with each thrust back into her. Anyone who is stupid enough to come waltzing in without an audience planned could find them. 

When Adora slips a third finger in, Catra _keens._ She closes her eyes and lets her head drop against Adora's shoulder, pressing her open mouth to the soft flesh at the juncture of Adora's neck. The additional thickness inside of her hinders some of the movement but the feeling of fullness has her clamping down in waves of building pleasure. 

She's wet enough — so wet, she can feel it dripping down her thighs — that Adora can still move in and out with relative ease. She continues to thrust into Catra, taking care to flex her fingers and curl them into the sensitive spot at the front of her inner wall. The other hand curves against her breast, thumb working slow circles around one nipple until the tightness there almost hurts.

“So good,” Adora mutters. Her neck under Catra’s mouth is warm and wet with sweat. She laves her tongue over the skin there, feels a small victory when Adora's breath hitches in her throat, when her fingers stutter deep inside. “So — _aah —_ hot.”

Catra just sucks at the skin against Adora's throat, her own cries lost against her neck. She's not the only one who can bruise. She wants Adora to remember it tomorrow, to look at the dark mark in the mirror next time Catra is off on a mission and think of her. 

“ _Catra,”_ Adora says between struggling breaths. And then, lower, under her breath, “Fuck.”

Catra is so caught up on the fingers inside of her that she doesn't realize where Adora's other hand has gone until it's drifting down from her breast, trailing across her sensitive skin. Adora's thumb sweeps through the slick where Catra is spread open around her fingers and then back up, smearing it up against Catra's clit. 

Catra all but _screams_ against her neck. The fingers inside her move harder and faster, and Adora braces her hand against Catra's pelvis and rubs mind-melting circles around her clit. 

“Come on, Catra,” pants Adora. “Come for me.”

A few hard thrusts, a curl of her fingers inside, and Catra does. She comes with a muffled scream into Adora's neck, biting down so hard that she's probably drawing blood. Her claws drag mindless scratches down Adora's back, her hips stuttering uncontrollably as the shock of her orgasm pulses through her. All she can feel is _Adora,_ fingers clenched inside her. _On_ her, her other hand still languidly rubbing at her clit. _Against_ her, that continuous point of contact from their shoulders to their breasts before their bodies part again. It’s all Adora, Adora, _Adora_. 

Catra all but collapses, the muscles of her thighs giving out underneath her. Whether from the prolonged stress of the position or the force of her climax, she isn't sure. It pushes Adora's fingers deeper, and she whines low in her throat. Her muscles clench. She's so overstimulated. She doesn't know what she wants, if she wants Adora to pull out or to push back in again. 

She releases Adora's neck, too lightheaded to admire her work. She buries her forehead against Adora's shoulder instead and Adora turns her face into her dark hair. “ _Perfect,_ ” she whispers there, and, _Beautiful,”_ and “ _So good,_ ” which they both know is an outright lie. 

Eventually, Adora pulls her fingers from Catra's body. Catra lets out a groan, muscles clenching around the newfound emptiness. She leans forward, letting Adora cradle her for a moment. Adora wipes her fingers sheepishly on the fabric of her pants, but they're still damp when they stroke against Catra's back in soft, soothing circles. 

Finally, Adora says against her hair, “Are you okay?”

Catra nods against her shoulder. 

“Can you keep going?” 

Catra lets out a shaky breath and nods a second time. She finally leans back to look Adora in the eye, to take in her flushed cheeks, the golden strands of hair matted to her forehead. This whole time, Adora has barely been touched — but her pupils are blown wide with pleasure, her breath ragged. 

Catra’s gaze dips lower, to the patch of angry red skin on Adora’s neck, broken in places from Catra’s fangs. Tomorrow, it will be painted almost as purple as Catra is. Her mouth still tastes coppery from the bite, and it sends a spike of possessive adrenaline through Catra's system. 

She drags Adora deep into another kiss, one hand smoothing over her perfect jaw and the other pressing against the raw skin on her neck. Adora mouth parts easily, letting Catra in, letting her sweep the tip of her tongue past her swollen lips. 

Adora’s fingers tighten in surprise against Catra’s waist at the intrusion. Catra bites back a cry of pain when Adora's fingers unconsciously dig into a dark bruise, knowing Adora would only ease her grip. She doesn’t want that — she doesn’t want Adora to stop touching her. Not now, not ever. 

Adora shifts under her, hands gripping just under Catra’s bare thighs. Catra can feel the muscles in Adora’s arms flexing when she picks her up and stands. She doesn’t break the kiss until she sets Catra down, strong arms not trembling even a little bit from the strain. 

Catra looks up at her with a raised eyebrow. Her hands ghost over the arms of the throne, fingertips brushing over the angry lines her claws had left in the metal at the beginning of their little exploit. She settles back against the seat. It’s not exactly a _comfortable_ chair, but Catra supposes that isn’t the point. 

It’s a powerful chair. 

Adora stands over her, peeling off the breastband that Catra had displaced earlier. Catra enjoys the view overhead, the cut expanse of Adora’s abdominal muscles flexing with each movement, the sharp V of her hip bones as they dip down, down, down under her waistband. 

She leans forward on instinct, hands going to Adora’s hips. To pull her tight uniform pants down, to pull her in, to pull her up and over her mouth, Catra isn’t sure. She doesn’t get very far. 

Just like the first time she had tried to reciprocate, Adora catches Catra’s hands in hers. 

“No.” 

“No?” Catra asks, somewhat impatient. Her eyes follow the lines of Adora’s hips. She wants to press her mouth to that harsh line, to trail her tongue along it,to fit skin and bone and muscle beneath the sharp tips of her fangs. 

Adora leans forward, lowering Catra’s hands back down to the arm-rests. 

“No,” she says and sinks to her knees. 

For someone who seems to want to _take care_ of her, Adora is clearly trying to kill Catra. She presses her claws back into the metal armrests again as Adora presses open mouthed kisses to the inside of her knees, the firm surface of her thighs. Her heart is still pounding from her last climax when Adora gently pushes her thighs further apart, bows her head, and _licks_. 

"Oh, _fuck!"_

The metal of the throne bites into the tender underside of Catra’s thighs, into the point where her wrists bear down on the arms of the chair. Just like the rest of the Fright Zone, it isn't comfortable. It isn’t a good place. It eats at people like acid, searing them away until there is nothing left. 

In contrast, Adora’s mouth between her legs is _warm,_ so warm, and soft. Her hands clutch at Catra’s thighs, fingers working in soothing, mindless strokes against the delicate skin there. Catra closes her eyes and everything narrows to that point where Adora’s tongue works ardently against her, where she draws Catra’s folds into her mouth and gently sucks, where she presses her tongue up, against, _in._ She’s so determined, so devoted. 

_This_ is what it’s like to be loved by Adora. 

It doesn’t matter what anyone does to them, what they do to other people. It never has. Catra doesn’t care if she comes home bruised and battered after being thrown around like a ragdoll by the Rebellion. Not if she has _this._ Not if she has Adora, just the two of them until the end of the world. They _are_ the world, she and Adora. They always have been.

Adora’s hot mouth works against her, tongue laving up so that she can press the tip against Catra’s clit. With a gasp, Catra pushes up against her mouth again, and Adora lets her. Catra’s eyes fly open and she watches, one hand slipping into Adora’s golden hair. With Adora bowed over her, Catra can see the angry lines traced up Adora’s back. Her ponytail falls to one side, exposing the dark bruise Catra had kissed into her neck.

She lets out a moan and pushes up into Adora’s mouth, drunk on the sight. Here Adora is, the most powerful woman in Etheria, on her knees in front of Catra. 

“Fuck, Adora,” she moans, eyes slamming closed, head falling back against the back of the throne. “I want…” 

She doesn’t even know what she wants. More, less. Faster, harder. Slower, softer. _Adora._ Every time Adora pulls away for a breath it feels like torture. 

Adora’s fingers dig in against her thighs, their pressure against the fresh bruises a shock to Catra’s system. She gasps and bucks into the touch. Adora works slowly but eagerly against her clit — licking, sucking, lavishing her with attention — and Catra can’t help the way her hips move, grinding up against her as Adora eats her out. 

Adora’s hands smooth up her thighs, ghost over her abdomen. They come to rest on Catra’s hips, holding her still as Adora’s tongue draws lazy circles, over and over, against that sensitive bundle of nerves. Catra’s hands fly to Adora’s, palms pressing to the backs of her hands. She retracts her claws as much as she is able to. She just wants to _touch_ Adora. 

She feels so much more sensitive after her first climax, everything raw and wet and tender beneath Adora’s skilled tongue. Her hips buck and jerk unconsciously, but Adora holds them down with hands like a vice grip — trapping Catra in place, preventing her from moving, making her take everything Adora has to give. Pressure builds in her abdomen, a familiar light-headed sensation chasing her with each swirl of Adora’s tongue. 

“A — _ah —_ Adora,” Catra groans. Adora licks up against her clit, again and again. In her enthusiasm, her teeth scrape against Catra’s sensitive skin — and that shock is enough to tip Catra over the edge. She comes with a cry, a drawn out, “ _Adora,”_ rising from her lips, loud enough that anyone walking through this wing of the Fright Zone might hear. 

Her hips buck forward, and this time Adora takes pity, letting her ride out the shocks of her climax in a series of hip stuttering movements into her mouth. Catra's toes and her fingers curl, the tips of her retracted claws biting shallow marks into the soft flesh of Adora’s strong hands. Everything goes quiet, Catra's ears ringing as she comes. The whole time, Adora's mouth is still on her, tongue still eagerly working at her clit. 

Adora waits until the shocks have subsided to pull off of Catra. She dusts soft kisses up the insides of her thighs, the dip of her pelvic bones. Her fingers run tender circles over Catra’s hips, as if that movement alone could soothe away the bruises. 

The throne is wide, almost wide enough for both of them to fit side by side. Adora nudges Catra carefully to the side, slips in beside her and then pulls Catra’s legs up over her lap. Catra curls forward on instinct, back braced against the arm of the throne, forehead on Adora’s bare shoulder. 

Adora’s arm comes to drape around her shoulder, pulling her closer. She presses their foreheads together. The only sound in the room is their ragged breathing, slowly softening into near silence as the adrenaline ebbs away.

“You gave up your turn,” Catra finally says into the quiet. 

Adora laughs, and Catra can feel the reverberation of that laugh in her chest. She closes her eyes. She wants to live in that laugh, wants to live in a world where she hears it more. Instead, she lives in this one. 

“I’m okay with that,” Adora says quietly, hand moving soothingly up the side of Catra’s torso. Outside of the heat of the moment, Catra’s more aware than ever of how tender the bruising at her side is. She almost wonders if she has a cracked rib, but she welcomes the touch all the same. Because it’s Adora. Because Catra, too, had missed her. 

“Of course you are,” Catra mutters. 

Adora’s other arm wraps around her waist, pulling her in even closer. Catra just lets her. She feels colder, now, and exposed, the wetness between her legs growing uncomfortable. She wants to get off of this damn chair and into a shower and then a bed. But she doesn’t move. Instead she leans her head against Adora’s, letting herself be held. 

Adora needs this. Maybe more than Catra does, after all of that. Her hands are those that guide the Horde, and yet this is what they were made to do: to hold, to protect. She’s so _noble,_ even here amongst all of the evils of the Fright Zone, defined by a sense of duty that has nothing to do with furthering the reach of the Horde. She needs something to do _,_ something to take care of. 

Catra has always been that _something_ for her _,_ just like Adora is hers. 

“Adora,” she says quietly. Her eyelids are heavy. Today has been _so_ long. All she wants is to fucking _sleep,_ but she can’t do that here. Not when someone could walk in at any moment. Her and Adora's relationship is an open secret amongst the Horde, but that doesn't mean Catra wants someone to find her naked — and worse, _cuddling —_ on Adora's iron throne. 

And then there are the dreams she had spent the last few weeks running from, those strange, vivid dreams that come bobbing to the surface the second she goes under. A part of her is scared to fall asleep next to Adora like that. More scared that for some unfathomable reason, Adora won’t be there when she wakes up. 

Adora's thumb strokes against her ribcage, brushing over an old scar. “Hmm?” Adora asks.

“It's always going to be you and me, right?” Catra asks, uncharacteristically soft. “Together?”

Adora's fingers continue their soothing ministrations against her side. She isn't helping Catra's resolve to stay awake. “Of course.”

“Do you promise?”

The slow circles being drawn against her side don’t stop — but Catra can sense that imperceptible shift in Adora’s posture, that slight tension of her muscles against Catra. She wonders, not for the first time, if Adora remembers what she remembers. 

Adora presses her forehead against Catra’s. 

“I promise.” 

**Author's Note:**

> So. That happened.
> 
> Adora didn’t get hers but like. That’s her own fault and she’s kind of a service top anyway. 
> 
> Tbh I genuinely do like comments and feedback, I don’t write this kind of thing very often, though I imagine most of you are going to like. Take the smut and run. 
> 
> The idea of writing more of this is fun tbh but like. This would probably be the least angsty in this universe. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, I hope you liked it! 
> 
> Again! Don’t tag me referencing my nsfw stuff on twitter. Thanks!


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